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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, March 21, 1891
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, March 21, 1891
what Scotch boys, what a "prencipled" (but piscatorial) "Meenister"! Don't you feel your elbow twitch? Don't you want to snatch the rod from SANDY McDOUGAL's hand, and land that "fush" yourself, Sawbath or no Sawbath?
But, bless us, one wants to describe, and praise, and purchase them all! A KEENE drawing, almost any KEENE drawing, is "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever" to everyone who has an eye for admirable art and adorable drollery. And good as is the fun of these drawings, the graphic force, and breadth, and delicacy, and freshness, and buoyancy, and breeziness, and masterly ease, and miraculous open-airiness, and general delightfulness of them, are yet more marked and marvellous. Time would fail to tell a tithe of their merits. An essay might be penned on any one of them—but fate forbid it should be, unless a sort of artistic CHARLES LAMB could take the task in hand. Better far go again to New Bond Street and pass another happy hour or two with the ruddy rustics and 'cute cockneys, the Scotch elders and Anglican curates, the stodgy "Old Gents" and broad-backed, bunchy middle-class matrons, the paunchy port-swigging-buffers, and hungry but alert street-boys, the stertorous cabbies, and chatty 'bus-drivers, the "festive" diners-out and wary waiters, the Volunteers and vauriens, the Artists and 'Arries, the policemen and sportsmen, amidst the incomparable street scenes, and the equally inimitable lanes, coppices, turnip-fields and stubbles, green glades and snowbound country roads of wonderful, ever-delightful, and—for his comrades and the Public alike—all-too-soon-departed CHARLES KEENE!
Nothing really worthy of his astonishing life-work, of even that part of it exhibited here, could be written within brief compass, even by the most appreciative, admiring, and art-loving of his sorrowing friends or colleagues. Let the British Public go to New Bond Street, and see for itself, in the very hand-work of this great artist, what he made manifest during so many years in the pages of Punch, namely, the supreme triumph of "Black-and-White" in the achievements of its greatest master.
KING STORK AND KING LOG.
AN OLD FABLE REVERSED.
The Frogs, who lived a free and easy life
(As in the ancient fable)
Though not quite clear from internecine strife,
Fancied they were well able
To do without a King. Batrachian wisdom
Disdains the rule of fogeydom and quizdom,
And Frogs as soon would take to bibs and corals,
As ask a "King who might inspect their morals"
From Jupiter. Then 'twas Juventus Mundi;
The true King-maker now is—Mrs. GRUNDY,
And she insisted that our modern Frogs
Should have a King—the woodenest of King Logs.
At first this terrified our Frogs exceedingly,
And, sometimes passionately, sometimes pleadingly,
They grumbled and protested;
But finding soon how placidly Log rested
Prone in the pool with mighty little motion,
Of danger they abandoned the wild notion,
Finding it easy for a Frog to jog
On with a kind King Log.
But in the fulness of the time, there came
A would-be monarch—Legion his fit name;
A Plebs-appointed Autocrat, Stork-throated,
Goggle-eyed, Paul-Pry-coated;
A poking, peering, pompous, petty creature,
A Bumble-King, with beak for its chief feature.
This new King Stork,
With a fierce, fussy appetite for work;
Not satisfied with fixing like a vice
Authority on Town and Country Mice,
Tried to extend his sway to pools and bogs,
And rule the Frogs!
But modern Frogdom, which had champions able,
Had read old-Æsop's fable,
And of King Stork's appearance far from amorous,
Croaked forth a chorus clamorous
Of resonant rebellion. These, upreared
On angry legs, waved arms that nothing feared;
King Log defending. Great CRAUGASIDES,
Among batrachian heroes first with ease,
With ventriloquial vehemence defied
The long-beaked base usurper. At his side
His fond companion, PHYSIGNATHUS swelled
Cheeks humorously defiant;
The ruddy giant
CRAMBOPHAGUS, as tall as is a Tree,
Flouted King Stork with gestures fierce and free,
Sleek CALAMINTHIUS, aper deft of eld,
Against the foe a pungent dart impelled;
HYDROCHARIS too,
(Most Terryble to view),
Fared to the front, whilst smaller, yet as brave
Tiny batrachian brethren, dusk of hue,
PRASSOPHAGUS, PRASSOEUS, staunch and true,
Webbed hands did wildly wave
With the frog-host against the beaky bird—
"He be our King?" they loudly cried.
"Absurd!
Not Mercury, nor Jupiter we beg
For a devouring despot, lank of leg,
Of prying eye, and frog-transfixing beak;
Though singly we seem weak,
United we are strong to smite or scoff.
Off, would-be tyrant, off!!!"
CHURCH AND STAGE.—Let no rabid Churchmen, of any school of thought, ever again take exception to the irreligious character of playhouse entertainments. Let them read the advertisement of the Lyceum Theatre in The Times for March 13:—"During Holy Week this theatre will be closed, re-opening on Saturday, March 28, with The Bells, which will also be played on Easter Monday night." Could any arrangement be more thoroughly in harmony with general ecclesiastical practice? Any liturgical student knows that the bells are played once on Holy Saturday, and that they should be played on Easter Monday is a matter of course.
TRACKS FOR THE TIMES.
[A Magistrate has just decided that the Police have a right to interfere with the growing practice of using the public roads of the Metropolis at night-time as running-grounds for athletes.]
I come from haunts of smoke and grime,
I start in some blind alley,
And race each night against Old Time
Enthusiastically!
I dodge past frightened City gents,
And sometimes send them flying,
Which makes them cherish sentiments
Not wholly edifying.
I wind about, and in and out,
Along the crowded pavement,
While here and there the mockers flout
My costume and behavement.
I slip, I slide, I flash, I flee
Amid the teeming traffic,
And drivers often use to me
Idioms extremely graphic.
I murmur when a Lawyer's view
Absurdly tries to hinder
My turning public roads into
A private path of cinder.
Yet still to "spurt," agile, alert,
Shall be my one endeavour;
For Cits may stare, and Jehus swear,
But I run on for ever!
